The Sun Rising
by John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on
us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of
time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the’Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: ‘All here in one bed lay.’
She’is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar’d to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy’as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
John Donne (1572-1631) wrote some of the best poetry in the language. He was a courtier, a superb poet, and a famous seducer. In later life he took to the church and wrote poems dedicated to various female saints. Some of these later poems are almost indistinguishable from those of his courtier days, except that the female who is now being ‘persuaded’ is much more likely to be either a saint or the Virgin Mary!
In this present poem, it is the morning after. As the girl slumbers on, Donne catches the ‘Sunne’ peeping through the curtains. (The great conceit of this poem is that the poet addresses the sun throughout this poem as if it were human).
‘Busy old fool! Unruly Sunne!…Why must thou thus, through windows and through curtains call on us…?’
Gloriously, Donne begins by accusing the sun of being a Peeping Tom!
‘…why must thou thus…’
In other words, haven’t you anything better to do? Do you not realize that lover’s seasons are none of your business?
The lover tells the sun, who is most definitely a ‘…sawcy (for being a Peeping Tom) pedantique (a tedious clock-watching pedant) wretch…’ to bugger off and to take his wake-up call (the morning) with him. His niggling insistence that people should be up and about is for others, like ‘…late school boys and sour apprentices…’ certainly not for these lovers.
‘…Go tell the… huntsmen that the King will ride
,Call country ants to harvest offices;…’
This is the sun’s particular function, the humdrum, the mundane, the endless, never changing pattern of the seasons.
But love ‘…no season knows, nor clyme…’
Time-keeping, hours, days, minutes and months mean nothing to those in love, and are qualities therefore, which are, by contrast, ‘…the rags of time…’.
The poet points out that, should the sun get too cocky, merely by closing his eyes he could make the sun cease to exist. He is not prepared to do this because’…I would not lose her sight so long…’
However, he tells the sun; ‘…if her eyes have not blinded thine…’ (if the beauty of her eyes have not blinded the sun!!) have a look on your 24hr travels and see if India and the Kings you saw there yesterday are still there.
The poet insists they won’t be because’…all here in one bed lay…’. In other words the world is contracted to the size of their room and nothing else exists.
‘…She is all states and Princes I,
Nothing else is…’
By this is meant that she is every country in the world and he is ‘all Princes…’
Nothing else exists.
Position, honour and wealth are, (compared to the lover’s state) mere alchemy, worthless trifles
So, cheekily he tells the sun ‘…thine age asks ease…’ (he is treating the sun like an old pensioner!) He gives the sun permission to slow down! If it’s duty is ‘…to warm the world…’ then simply by shining on the two lovers it is fulfilling its obligations!
‘…This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere…’
If you are still with me, and I hope you are, then you will understand that this is not only a brilliantly conceived intellectual exercise but an equally brilliant poem about being in love. That I might have stumbled in this attempt to explain it’s complexities to you will I am sure, attract deserved brickbats. I shall invest in a defensive umbrella!